


Silver Linings

by fragilelittleteacup



Series: The Sheriff and His Phoenix [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Amnesia, Awkwardness, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Bisexuality, Domestic, Hospitals, Kinda, M/M, Masturbation, Moral Dilemmas, Mutual Masturbation, Pining, Self Confidence Issues, Supernatural Bonds, headcanon!backstories, parrish is cute af, phoenix!parrish, stiles is my baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 04:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6358696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is alive, and so is Parrish- but Parrish has also regained all of his memories.<br/>Will anything ever be the same again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

DEPUTY JORDAN PARRISH

 

The world came back slowly.

First, it was sensations. The softness of the bed under him, the way it cradled his aching body, the stiff sheets against his skin. His face felt too big, swollen, his head heavy and painful.

Second, it was colours, glimpsed through swollen eyelids. The hazy blues and whites of the room around him. The pale blur of skin, faces above him. Third came noise, voices, words he did not understand. He was trapped. They lifted his body, cut his clothes away, but he couldn’t stop them. A woman’s voice was at his ear, a hand on his arm, and he felt that he could trust her.

The night came with silence; a quiet that seeped into his head, filling his brain with empty space. Noises returned, eventually, and he realised people were telling him to wake up. He couldn’t. He didn’t know how.

Then the sun came.

The glowing face, above him, and he was blinded. He blinked, saw eyes, a smile, a soft expression. He felt a hand on his arm, fingers curled around his hand, and there was fire in his blood- he breathed in, air surging into his lungs, filling him, sweeter than anything he’d ever tasted- the hands moved, one on his chest, against his heart, and he could _breathe,_ he could _remember-_

 _Jordan Parrish,_ he realised, _my name is Jordan Parrish._

His memories trickled back in increments and snatches, faster and faster, until his entire life sat in his mind, reoccupying the space that had been hollowed out, empty. He was no longer an empty body.

He knew who he was. He was Jordan Parrish. He was a Deputy with the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department.

And he was looking up at the man who had saved him.

He reached up, breathing deeply, and touched his face.

_John Stilinski._

 

The next time he woke, he knew he’d been asleep for days.

He opened his eyes and, finally, saw the world the way he’d seen it before. He felt like himself again. He sat up, craned his neck, yawned, and went to rub his face- he winced when he pressed his knuckles into his swollen eyes. He shook the pain away and stared at his hands, his wrists- the welting was a stark, disgusting pink under the hospital lights. He remembered the men who’d taken him, and felt a swell of embarrassment, remembering how he’d acted. He’d been so afraid. So helpless. The indignity of it all.

He watched his hands curl into fists.

There was a noise, the sound of a door opening. He looked up, and felt his heart thud in his chest.

“Sheriff,” he said, flattening his hands out in his lap, trying to appear nonchalant.

Sheriff Stilinski paused, and Parrish realised he felt it too- the uncertainty. Now that the emergency was over, what were they to each other? How should they act? Like nothing more than Deputy and Sheriff? That didn’t even come close to… _whatever_ had happened between them.

“Hey, Parrish,” the Sheriff closed the door behind him. “How’re you feeling?”

“Fine.” Parrish’s eyes were drawn to the Sheriff’s throat. “Your neck looks sore, sir.”

“I’ll be fine.” The Sheriff sat.

“Or I could… fix it. If you wanted,” Parrish smiled uncertainly, “because apparently that’s a thing I can do now?”

The Sheriff laughed.

Silence fell. It was awkward.

“I’m glad you’re alright, Parrish.” The Sheriff smiled, and Parrish’s heart twisted in on itself at the way the Sheriff’s face softened, the way his eyes became kind and gentle. “Stiles is, too.”

Parrish nodded, looked away. He remembered everything. The Sheriff’s hands on him, carrying him, holding him up when he was too weak to move- the Sheriff behind him, in the dark, the press of lips against his skin.

He remembered the way the Sheriff had frozen immediately after he’d done it, going rigid, and Parrish had leaned his head back, found the soft underside of his jaw in the darkness and pressed his lips to the skin there- he regretted doing that, because he worried about how the Sheriff felt about it, but he wished he could do it again.

In fact, he wanted the whole thing again.

“So… how much do you remember?”

He turned his gaze back to the Sheriff, hearing the uneasy edge to his voice, and realised, _He doesn’t know I remember._

“…Bits and pieces.” He lied, forcing a smile onto his face, “I remember those thugs beating me up, though, that’s for sure.”

The Sheriff’s expression hardened, and Parrish felt a thrill to know the Sheriff cared about him. “Stiles tells me that Scott’s had them detained in Eichen House. They won’t be getting out any time soon.”

“…That’s good. If I were just a Deputy, I’d suggest we investigate the inner workings of that place.”

“Yeah,” the Sheriff sighed, and smiled, “and if I was just the Sheriff of this town, I’d agree with you.”

Parrish nodded, and looked down at his hands. He drew a slow, thoughtful breath, and said, “Everything’s different now, isn’t it.”

The Sheriff was silent for a while, long enough that Parrish looked up questioningly. The older man shrugged.  

“It doesn’t have to be. I got on with my life as best I could, knowing what’s out there.”

Parrish smiled ruefully. “But you’re still human.”

The Sheriff stared, and swallowed thickly. He licked his lips, obviously thinking hard about what he’d say next, and Parrish only just prevented his gaze from flickering down to his mouth.

“…You’ve just found out you can heal people with your touch. I dunno, Parrish, but that kinda sounds like a blessing. I mean, you know who else did that? Jesus.”

Parrish nodded. That was fair. “Sure. But… with that kind of responsibility, how do I… How can I cope with that? When I leave this hospital room, and I see some kid in the halls who’s dying of cancer, how do I stop myself from healing them and exposing the supernatural world? I could…” He lowered his head, closed his eyes. “…I could save everyone.”

Sheriff Stilinski didn’t seem to have a response to that, and Parrish breathed deeply, deciding he’d try not to think about it.

“Anyway.” He looked up, gazed over at the blank television screen that was mounted on the wall in front of him. “That’s not all I found out, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

Parrish looked at him, steeled his nerves, and said, “This thing. Between us.”

The Sheriff looked just as nervous as Parrish felt, which was relieving.

“I’m alright with it, sir. I feel… I feel like I need you. But, if you want out- which I’d understand- then, I’m sure we can find a way-”

“No.” The Sheriff said, quicker than Parrish expected. He held Parrish’s gaze, resolute, and Parrish tried to gauge how he was feeling. Was he lying?

“You don’t owe me, Sheriff. Even after what I did for Stiles. If you don’t want this, just say, and we can-”

“I said no, Parrish. I _do_ owe you. You saved my son’s life.”

“But that doesn’t mean you have to-”

“It does, Parrish.” The Sheriff smiled, and Parrish felt like he was losing a fight he didn’t really want to win. “I’m staying with you. Whatever happens.”

_What does that mean? You kissed me- do you want me? Or were you just caught up in the moment?_

“Okay,” Parrish said.

 

***

 

After the Sheriff left, which was a while, Parrish sat with his hands twined in his lap, wishing he would come back, feeling the distance between them like some huge, living thing.

Scott visited, pale and twitchy, and Parrish patted him on the knee and told him it was okay, even though he could still remember Scott’s hand plunging into his throat, claws curling around his spine, a moment of horrid clarity before those claws had snapped his vertebra and switched everything off. Parrish was glad when he left. He thought about joining his pack, and decided he’d need some time before he could trust that young man again.

Stiles visited, brimming with nervous gratitude and a desperate need to prove how indebted he was, and Parrish talked him down from it as much as he could. But Stiles still left with awe-filled eyes and a hero-worshipping grin on his face, and Parrish felt nauseated by this hero figure he’d become.

 _This isn’t me,_ he kept thinking, _I’m just a Deputy._

Melissa came around, exhausted, smiling sweetly. She laid a hand on his arm, just like she had before, and told him how glad she was. If anyone should’ve been a healer, a Phoenix, he was certain it should’ve been her. She deserved the praise. She deserved the worship.

Eventually, after everyone had left, a young woman came- Malia Tate, werecoyote. She sat down, not brimming with grateful energy like the others. Her face was carefully arranged into a neutral lack of expression.

“How’re you feeling?”

“…Fine.” He’d never spoken to this girl before in his life, unless you counted interviewing her a few times.

She nodded. “You saved Stiles.”

“...I did.”

She stared at him, for a very long time, going as still as an animal about to attack. He went still too, not sure what to expect- he almost jumped when she leaned forward, slowly, eyes fixed on him like a predator slinking low in the grass.

“I realised something last night. While I was laying with Stiles.”

“…Oh?”

“I was going to make a decision,” she said carefully, “but you saved him. He’s the one thing tethering me to this life, and you saved him.” To his shock, she smiled, wide and dangerous, and he’d never seen anything more genuine or raw in his life. “You saved my Stiles. And now I won’t become a monster.”

He had no idea what she was talking about. “You’re… welcome?”

She stood, straightened out her clothes, and cleared her throat. “I’d hug you. But you seem pretty beat up, so I won’t.”

He looked up at her, thoroughly confused. “Okay.”

She smiled down at him, teeth white and sharp, contrasting with the soft waves of her hair and her pretty face. “Raincheck on that, alright? I owe you.”

She left, somehow moving silently across the linoleum, and he wearily thought, _seems like everyone owes me._

 

***

 

He went home. Actually, the Sheriff drove him home, which was awkward. Unbearably, awfully, insanely awkward. But the closeness was like air he needed to breathe, and he had to clench his hands in his lap to keep himself from reaching out, laying his hands on the Sheriff, feeling the fire between their skin.

He went home to an empty house. He went to his bathroom, remembered Melissa bathing him. He went to his bedroom, stared at the bed, remembered when his screams had filled the space, remembered when the Sheriff had quieted him. Remembered when the Sheriff had kissed him.

He took off his clothes, lay down. He closed his eyes, and he could feel the pull, the heat, the fire calling him. He was certain, unbelievably so, that the Sheriff could feel it too. He placed his hands on his chest, moved them down, arched into his own touch, and thought, _can he feel this?_

His hands were too soft, too small, to familiar. But he imagined they were older, wearied, calloused with age and experience and war, and he pretended there were lips against his neck, on his collarbone, leaving pink marks and blooming red. He imagined the heat, the sparking touch, the weight on top of him, inside of him. The room was dark, but it was on fire behind his eyelids, and he tipped his head back, breathed out, came.

He lay still.

_Did you feel that?_

 

SHERIFF STILINSKI

 

He felt it.

It woke him in the middle of the night, and he knew the emotion, the need, the urgency, wasn’t his. He breathed deeply, teeth clenched, jaw tight, because he _knew_ , he knew what this was, and what it meant Parrish was doing right now. He couldn’t escape it. It was inside him, and Parrish was under his skin, moaning in his ear, gasping against his mouth- he squeezed his eyes shut, bit his tongue, and tried to pretend he didn’t want this, that he wanted to be faithful to Claudia.

But the truth was, she was gone. She had been dead for a long time, even before she’d died.

He didn’t want this, because he saw himself standing, side by side, against Parrish- he saw a young man, perfect and muscled and bronze, and an old man with too many memories and too much pain.

He slid his hands onto his face, digging nails into his skin, trying to distract himself- but the feeling grew stronger, more powerful, more desperate- until he was blinking at the ceiling, mouth open, arms splayed on the pillow, driven to the edge by an invisible hand, an invisible body-

 _No,_ he thought, _he doesn’t want me. I can’t want him._

_I’m just an old man._

 

***

The next morning, he woke early.

At first, staring into the darkness of the room, he couldn’t figure out why he was awake. He never woke up earlier than he had to- Stiles had inherited that from him.

Then he felt it. A distant, throbbing pain- phantom bruises on his face, cuts in his skin, swollen scabs on his lips. He closed his eyes, running a hand over his face to confirm what he already knew- the pain wasn’t his.

His first instinct, humming through him with immediate urgency, was to go to Parrish and help him. But, as he sat up, he thought of several hours earlier. The memory of it hit him like a truck, slamming into him, making his breath stop.

_Did he know I could feel it?_

The moment the thought occurred to him, he shook it off, muttering a quiet laugh to himself in the dark room. He got up, got dressed, and grabbed his keys. He’d said he was with Parrish, no matter what, and that included now. Parrish could do what he wanted in his spare time- it was none of his business. It didn’t change the Sheriff’s debt to him.

He swung his door open, and stopped.

Parrish’s cruiser was pulling up into the driveway. The Sheriff stood there and stared, raised his eyebrows. Parrish parked the car, turned it off, and got out. He was limping a little, walking gingerly barefoot, and the Sheriff couldn’t help but clench his teeth hard at the way the bruises and swelling on Parrish’s face looked stark and painful under the glow of the house’s front light.

Parrish walked forward, smiled hesitantly. The Sheriff resolutely did _not_ think of soft hands, a warm body between sheets, quiet moans in an empty room.

“You felt the pain too, huh?”

The Sheriff nodded. “I was just on my way to your place.”

Parrish went to bite his lip, but winced, raising a hand to wipe away the blood that seeped from the cut on his lips.

“Damn,” he breathed, glaring at the smudge of red on his thumb, “gotta stop doing that.”

“How about you come inside.” The Sheriff stepped back into the house, pushed the door open wider. “You can heal yourself by healing someone else, yeah?”

Parrish regarded him incredulously as he stepped inside. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself for me.”

Sheriff Stilinski rolled his eyes as he closed the door. “Nothing extreme, Parrish. I promise.”

 

They sat down at the kitchen table. The Sheriff took a small knife from the kitchen, and pressed it against the back of his hand.

“I’m not comfortable with this.” Parrish said, probably louder than was necessary.

The Sheriff shook his head, saying, “It’s nothing.” The blade broke skin, and blood started to well under the metal. Parrish grabbed his hand instantly, and the Sheriff felt a jolt echo through him- the golden warmth sparked like a match. When Parrish glanced up at him, the Sheriff was relieved to see uncertainty and confusion in his face - he was just as clueless about this as the Sheriff was.

Then Parrish blinked, slowly, and his eyes were the brightest things in the room. They were orange, and then they were a hot gold, molten jewels below his eyelashes.

Flames slid over Parrish’s skin, like a writhing, glowing animal. Their hands were on fire, and Parrish arched his head back, took a deep breath- the Sheriff felt a strange itch on the back of his hand, his skin pulling. Parrish’s face was changing too, the bruises fading before the Sheriff’s wide eyes, the cut on his lip disappearing, the swelling shrinking, sinking into his skin and flattening, until his face was smooth, his skin brown and perfect again.

Too soon, the warmth stopped thrumming through his blood, and Parrish let go with a shocked exhalation. The second their hands separated, the Sheriff felt his heart sink.  He looked down at his hand, and saw no evidence of the cut beyond a smear of blood.

“Wow,” Parrish breathed, looking up and grinning, “that felt great.”

The Sheriff smiled, about to say, _yeah, it did,_ but stopping as he wondered how that would sound. Immediately, he wished he’d just gone ahead and said it, because a silence fell, and it was nothing if not awkward.

He cleared his throat. “D’you want me to show you the spare room?”

Parrish looked relieved. “Sure.”


	2. Chapter 2

STILES STILINSKI

 

When he awoke, it was to the smell of cooking.

He sat up slowly, frowning. His dad didn’t cook breakfast. At least, he hadn’t cooked breakfast for a while. The closest he came was yelling out to Stiles that there were leftovers in the fridge, before he ran off to work with a coffee in his hand. Neither of them were good at getting up in time to actually prepare a proper breakfast.

But he knew his dad wasn’t working at the station yet, since everything that had happened, so Stiles assumed that he was having a sentimental day and wanted to chat over breakfast. Well, that was fine by Stiles. Free food.

He stood, yawning, rubbing his eyes. He yawned loudly as he came out into the kitchen, rubbing his face.

“Morn’n, dad,” he mumbled.

“…Think you got the wrong person, Stiles.”

Stiles lowered his hands, and blinked, still half asleep. Parrish was standing in the kitchen, grinning with amusement, _making pancakes._ Stiles had always had a healthy appreciation for Parrish’s ridiculously toned physique- because, hey, he was only human- but seeing him in a t shirt and sweatpants, casually cooking pancakes, kind of seemed like god’s gift to the world.

“Whoa.” He said. “You’re making pancakes.”

“Want some?”

“Is water _wet?_ Yes, I want some.”

Parrish chuckled and flipped one of the pancakes over. “They’re nearly ready.”

Stiles sat down, yawned again. “Good to see you healed and all.”

“Mm. I’m definitely happier with it too.”

“Not that I mind, because you’re in my kitchen making breakfast, which kind of elevates you to, like, godliness- but why’re you here again?”

For several moments, Parrish didn’t respond. He rolled his bottom lip under his teeth, chewed on it absently, and took a slow breath, nodding to himself.

“Your dad and I… I don’t know what it is, but there’s this… connection. It was hard for us to be so far apart.”

“…Huh.” Stiles thought that over. He thought of his dad, at Parrish’s bedside, the way they’d looked at each other, and he wondered whether there was more to this than just a supernatural bond. He wasn’t repelled by the idea- in fact, he _wanted_ it. He wanted his dad to move on. “So… you’re moving in, then?”

After a shocked pause, Parrish laughed. “No, nothing like that. We’ll… We’ll work it out.”

“I’d totally be cool with that, you know. I mean, you saved my life, so,” Stiles gestured, “move in wherever. You can have my room if you want it.”

Parrish, still laughing, shook his head. “I’ll pass.”

Stiles saw movement out of the corner of his eye- his dad entering the room, dressed in his uniform.

“Hey, dad. You going back to work?”

“Have to sometime.” The Sheriff paused, and Stiles didn’t miss the discomfort in his face, the way his eyes darted over to Parrish.

His dad cleared his throat, wandered over to inspect breakfast. “Pancakes, Parrish?”

Parrish nodded, but he wasn’t smiling anymore. “Nearly done.”

Stiles frowned, thoroughly confused.

_…What the hell is going on here?_

To break apart the awkwardness, Stiles got up and took some plates out.

“For a guy who’s supposed to be taking it easy, you don’t seem to be sleeping in,” the Sheriff said.

Parrish snorted. “I’m healed. Besides,” he turned off the stove, “I usually get up at five. This _is_ me sleeping in.”

“Five?” Stiles exclaimed, putting the plates out on the bench. “You poor soul.”

“Hey, you could learn a thing or two from him, Stiles.”

“Yeah, yeah, dad, shut up.” Stiles grinned, taking out syrup, sugar and lemons, putting them with the plates.

Parrish turned from the stove, pan in hand, and started serving the pancakes onto plates. Stiles’ mouth was already watering. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had homemade pancakes. The deprivation truly was cruel.

His dad took a seat next to him, and made a noise of annoyance. “Come on, Parrish, have more than _one.”_

“Gotta watch my figure, Sheriff.”

Stiles grinned, eyes fixed on the four pancakes he had decided were for him. “Guess you could _learn a thing or two from him,_ dad-”

“Quiet, boy.”

They all laughed, and for a moment, it was nice, in a way things hadn’t been for a while- he was so used to it just being him and his dad that he’d forgotten what it was like to have someone else around. Stiles slid a plate towards him, and took the syrup in hand, lathering it over the pancakes. He cut a chunk of pancake off and shoved it in his mouth, moaning immediately.

“You are _amazing.”_

Parrish, cutting up a lemon, laughed. “They’re just pancakes.”

“These are _more_ than ordinary pancakes.”

The Sheriff took a bite and chewed, raising his eyebrows. “It’s good.”

“Thanks, Sheriff.”

“I like you,” Stiles jabbed his fork at Parrish, “I like you a lot.”

Parrish grinned down at his plate.

 

He went off to school after that, grabbing his backpack and his keys. Just as he was about to run out the door, he paused, and looked back into the kitchen- his dad and Parrish were standing at the counter, Parrish at the sink, his dad drying the dishes. They were talking quietly about something, and the scene was so domestic, so unbelievably calm and homely that Stiles found himself smiling widely.

He had a feeling things were about to get much better.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There COULD be more chapters to come after this, but I doubt it... don't hold your breath, but I MIGHT throw one on the end to give you all some lovely Parrish/Sheriff sexytimes.... that is not a promise.....


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